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COPYRIGHT DEPOS£T- 













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“though, I am getting old and gray, 
cZAnd other days have passed away, 
In memory I love to see 
c&he Qreek just like it used to he; ” 



MEMORIES 

AND OTHER 


RHYMES 

BY 

ABNER MORSE JOHNSON 



ILLUSTRATED BY 

FRANK TENNEY JOHNSON 


NEW YORK 

THE H. K. FLY COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS 






?S 3S / f 

/<? 2 . 4 - 


Copyright, 1924 
Abner Morse Johnson 


Made in U. S. A. 

DEC 29 *24 

©QA815373 

•vc j 


IN MEMORY OF 
MY MOTHER 







CONTENTS 


PAGE 

Memories.11 

The Honey Creek.16 

A Rainy April Day on the Prairie . . . .18 

The Stampede.20 

Florida Fishing.24 

The Spelling Match . . ..26 

Association .27 

The Old Cow Bell. 28 

The Optimist.31 

A Leap Year Poem.32 

The Sighing Wind. 34 

Lovely Winter.35 

Farming .36 

Irving .39 

The Old Hedge Row .40 

The Yellow-Jacket’s Nest . ..... 42 

The Game of Pomp Pomp Pullaway ... 43 

Gene... . 44 

The Violin .47 

Mother . . . 48 

The Little Lady .49 

When I Was a Kid.30 

Early Days.32 

A Getting Bites.36 

When We Were Young.37 

Our First Railroad .38 

























CONTENTS 


PAGE 

Breaking Prairie.59 

My Birthdays.60 

Tock-Tick-Tock .63 

The Trundle Bed.64 

At Easter Time.65 

Hallowe’en.66 

Progressive.68 

Hurry Up.71 

Sea Sick .73 

Our Mother.75 

Over There.77 

Going Home.78 














ILLUSTRATIONS 


PAGE 

“Though I am getting old and gray, 

And other days have passed away, 

In memory I love to see 

The Creek just like it used to be.” frontispiece. 

“But as they vainly tried with all their skill 
The movement of the drifting herd to check,” . 21 

“Still we’re listening for the ringing 
Of the old cowbell.”.29 

“There’s pleasure in sowing and reaping and mowing, 
There’s pleasure in tilling the ground.” ... 37 

“I love the lonely, silent autumn wood, 

Where once all nature was so blithe and gay.” . 45 

“And now my thoughts wander 
’Way back through the years,”.53 

“And when I hear them sweetly sing, 

I think of childhood’s joys.”.61 

“Away back there in other years, 

My Dad, he drove a yoke of steers.” .... 69 















BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH OF 
THE AUTHOR 


BNER MORSE JOHNSON is now living in 



Milwaukee County, State of Wisconsin, on the 
farm where he was born, before Wisconsin was a state 
or Milwaukee an incorporated city. 

His mother was Mrs. Abigail Clark Johnson, a sis¬ 
ter of Alvan Clark, the most noted of telescope makers 
in his day. She was a great lover of the beautiful in 
nature and art, which had a great influence on the life 
of her son, Abner, and also through him on the life 
of his son, Frank Tenney Johnson, now one of our 
most noted painters of western life. 

The author’s “A Rainy April Day on the Prairie” 
is a poem in memory of the early years of his married 
life spent on the wild and open prairie of western 
Iowa, where his children were born. The poem 
“Honey Creek” was written in memory of that portion 
of the author’s life spent in the beautiful Milwaukee 
woods before the hand of man had greatly marred its 
loveliness. 

His father was an author of genealogical records, 
and original poems. His native state was Massa¬ 
chusetts. 

The mother of the author’s children, also a great 
lover of the beautiful in nature and art, undoubtedly 
had a great influence on the lives of her children, 
Arthur and Frank and Libbie, and through them on 
her numerous grand children, some living in Wisconsin 
and some in Illinois. She was a daughter of Samuel A. 
Tenney and Mrs. Lydia Lytle Tenney, who came to 
Wisconsin in the “airly days from Rochester, N. Y. 


9 


Memories and other rhymes, 
Of other days, and other times. 


MEMORIES 


HEN I hear the kids a shoutin’ 



T T Just as happy as can be, 

And one of ’em is sayin’ 

O Gran’pa come and see! 

And snow flakes light and airy 
Are a failin’ kind o’ slow, 

In memory I wander 
To the years of long ago. 

When I see the kids a playin’ 

Upon the sandy beach, 

And the white caps are a rollin’ 

Out as far as eye can reach, 

And I hear the waves a rushin’ 

And a breakin’ on the shore, 

Why then I get to thinkin’ 

Of the happy days of yore. 

When the kids are all a racin’ 

Down in the meadow lot, 

And a “trompin’ ” down the clover 
While the weather’s awful hot, 

And they’re finding wild strawberries 
Which are mighty good to eat, 

O I go back in mem’ry 
To the time that can’t be beat. 


11 


MEMORIES 


When I see a kid a standin’ 

On a stump beside a brook, 

While he now and then is catchin’ 
A minnow with his hook, 

It takes me back in mem’ry 
You bet you, mighty quick, 

To the times when I went fishin’ 
Along the Honey “Crick.” 

When I see a kid a swingin’ 

In a slender tree, you know, 

A whoopin’ and a singin’ 

And a swingin’ to and fro, 

In mem’ry way back yonder, 

In the good old summer time, 

I’m a singin’ and a swingin’ 

In the tree I used to climb. 

When I hear the kids a squealin’ 
And a hollerin’ while at play, 

And a runnin’ and a laffin’ 

And a tryin’ to get away, 

In mem’ry I’m a runnin’ 

Just as crazy as I did 

While a playin’ pom’ pom’ pullaway 

When I was just a kid. 


12 


MEMORIES 


When I see a kid a chasin’ 

A bob to catch a hitch, 

While the driver is a tryin’ 

To hit him with a switch, 

And the horses are a goin’ 

Two forty on the snow, 

It takes me back in mem’ry 
To the winters long ago. 

When I see a kid a whitlin’ 

With a jack knife, don’t ye know, 
A makin’ him a whistle 
That he can blow and blow, 

In mem’ry I’m a whitlin’ 

And a makin’ whistles too, 

Down in the swampy meadow 
Where the pussy willows grew. 

When I see the kids a runnin’ 

And a jerkin’ off their clothes, 

And a headin’ toward the river, 
Goin’ a swimmin’ I suppose, 

When I see ’em there a divin’ 

And a splashin’ water too, 

In mem’ry I’m a swimmin’ 

Down in the old bayou. 


13 


MEMORIES 


When I see the kids a eatin’ 

Water melons, biggest size, 

A bitin’ in t’ the slices 
Almost up to their eyes, 

While the juice is just a drippin’ 

From off their finger tips, 

I just go back in mem’ry 
A smackin’* of my lips. 

When I see a kid a ridin’ 

A sleepy headed nag, 

And the rider is inclined to 
Just sit right up and brag, 

In mem’ry I’m a ridin’ 

A western pony then, 

That’s a buckin’ and a tryin’ 

To get me off again. 

When I see a kid a carryin’ 

A dinner pail and books, 

For the friend who walks beside him, 
So sweet she is in looks, 

When I see ’em there a talkin’ 

And a walkin’ kind o’ slow, 

In mem’ry I’m a goin’ 

To school long years ago. 


14 


MEMORIES 


When I see a kid a fightin’ 

A nest o’ bumble bees, 

Away down in the meadow 
Near a clump of alder trees, 

In memory you bet you, 

I’m a feelin’ mighty queer, 
With a bumble bee a chasin’ me 
So closely in the rear. 


1.5 


THE HONEY CREEK 


N OW while I think of early times, 

If I were good at writing rhymes, 

The Honey Creek in early days 
Would be one of my rustic lays. 

Its waters then so sweet and clear 
Refreshed the weary, panting deer; 

And here good fish in numerous schools 
Were swimming in its placid pools; 

And water-fowl, full many a brood, 

Would congregate in quest of food, 

While swallows used to dip and glide 
Close to its ever moving tide, 

And songbirds too, would come and lave 
Here in its cool pellucid wave. 

Upon its banks wild flowers grew, 

Such lovely flowers of many a hue, 

With their reflection on the stream 
Its beauty then was like a dream. 

Here in this vale were many trees 
Inhabited by swarms of bees, 

And thirteen bee trees—by the way— 

Were found here in a single day. 

And when the night wind used to sigh 
Its sweetest little lullaby, 

The wildwood pigeons with their young 
In lofty tree tops gently swung. 


16 


THE HONEY CREEK 


And here it was in early days 
That wild racoons, with taking ways, 
Were often hunted in the night, 

And then before a fire bright 
Each hunter, just a ruddy boy, 

Would roast more corn than coons destroy, 
While here and there a melon rind 
Would indicate a lucky find. 

The Honey Creek in early days 
Went flowing on in devious ways. 

’Twas then a beauty and a joy 
To every nature loving boy. 

And now its nothing but a drain, 

Quite useful though in times of rain. 

Yet man can never give it back 
The beauty that it now doth lack. 

Where once wild loveliness was found, 
It’s now a common dumping ground. 
Though I am getting old and gray, 

And early days have passed away, 

In memory I love to see 

The Creek just like it used to be. 

And I would like to be again 
Where wildwoods cover hill and glen ; 
Then in the evening’s gentle hush 
I’d hear the whippoorwill and thrush 
A singing their sweet roundelays, 

Just as they did in early days. 


17 


A RAINY APRIL DAY ON THE PRAIRIE 


T HE morning dawns with lowering sky, 
The air is soft and warm, 

The wild ducks o’er the prairie fly 
To meet the coming storm. 

The lark is singing blithe and gay, 

The frogs pipe in the slough, 

The crows foretell a stormy day 
And prairie chickens boo. 

The wild geese that were feeding there 
In yonder field of stalks, 

Are flying now up in the air— 

Their leader squawks and squawks. 

While soaring over vale and hill 
The prairie plovers call, 

And gaily laughs the little rill 
To see the raindrops fall. 

Now fast and faster falls the rain; 

The prairie pigeons fly, 

While loudly whoops the noisy crane, 

And curlews wildly cry. 

The herds are grazing while they stray 
O’er rolling prairies wide 
Through all the dark and stormy day 
Until the eventide. 


18 


A RAINY APRIL DAY ON THE PRAIRIE 


And now the day is nearly done, 

The storm is almost o’er, 

And brightly shines the setting sun, 

While rushing waters roar. 

The glistening rain, the prairies green, 
The bow of promise bright, 

Are such a lovely cheerful scene 
In evening’s golden light. 

The grazing cattle cease to roam, 

I hear their clanging bell 

As one by one they’re coming home 

To rest in their corral. 

And now I hear the bittern’s boom 
And the heron’s lonely call, 

While twilight with its deepening gloom 
Is hovering over all. 

While all around is getting dark 
And I am here alone, 

I listen to the coyotes bark 
And to the rivers moan. 

The new moon disappears from sight 
Away down in the west, 

And I forget the silent night 
While on my couch I rest. 


19 


THE STAMPEDE 


I T WAS a bright and lovely day in June. 

The tern and swallow and the prairie hawk 
Were skimming lightly o’er the grassy vale. 

The prairie grass was waving in the wind, 

And fragrant flowers of almost every hue 
Were gently nodding in the summer breeze. 

A herd of cattle scattered here and there 
Were feeding on the rich luxuriant grass. 

The herders slowly rode their horses ’round, 

Or, idly resting, passed the time away; 

While high o’er head the prairie plovers soared 
And with weird cries proclaimed a coming storm. 
And thus the day with all its loveliness 
Was drawing to a close, when in the west 
A threatening cloud appeared, and lightnings gleamed, 
And flashed along the far horizon line. 

The herders gathered in their wandering steers 
And then, within their lonely cabin, slept— 

And heeded not the threat’nings of the storm, 

While dreaming of their loved ones far away. 

But when the storm in all its fury came 
And beat upon their little hut so frail, 

And rain and hail broke in the window panes, 

Then they awoke, and by the lightning’s flash 
Saw that their herd had broken the corral 
And with the storm were drifting far away; 


20 



“< 23 ut as they vainly tried With all their skill 
c&he movement of the drifting herd to check ” 








THE STAMPEDE 


And as they knew that some might drift so far 
That doubtless they would ne’er again be found, 
Each tightly cinched a saddle to his horse 
And swiftly rode into the blinding storm; 

But as they vainly tried with all their skill 
The movement of the drifting herd to check, 

There came a flash of lightning, brighter far 
Than any other of that fearful storm; 

And thus a herder there was stricken down. 

The open prairie with its roving herds 
And lovely grass and fragrant flowers is gone; 

And fields of waving corn are either side 
A shady lane now leading through the vale; 

And children going to and home from school 

Oft linger near a lonely spot and say 

“Here’s where the herder, struck by lightning, fell.” 


23 


FLORIDA FISHING 


T HE wintry winds are cold and chill, 
The skies are dull and gray, 

The birds have long since taken flight 
And now are far away. 

The chipmunk and the ground hog are 
Asleep while shivering, 

The frogs down in the mirey slough 
Are waiting for the spring. 

Some people are a snoozing too; 

They sleep and eat, and then 
They growl about the winter’s cold, 

And go to sleep again. 

While some folks with a rod and line 
Are cheerful all the while, 

A fishing ’neath a sunny sky, 

Where alligators smile. 

Where orange blossoms white as snow 
So beautiful appear, 

And little lizards, frogs and snakes, 
Are active all the year. 


24 


FLORIDA FISHING 


And now a cheerful fisherman 
Relates a cheerful tale 
About a fish he nearly caught, 

It must have been a whale! 

For when he almost landed it 
His fish hook broke, and then, 
Perhaps next winter he will hook 
That same big fish again. 

Whenever you are catching fish, 
And fishing’s really fine, 
Remember that the largest one 
Is sure to break the line. 

Unless you as a fisherman 
Do scientific stunts, 

Instead of pulling hard enough 
To break the hook at once. 


25 


THE SPELLING MATCH 


TXT HO stood up in the spelling match 
* * Till all the rest went down? 

Why that’s old Johnson, don’t ye know, 
He lives out south o’ town. 

When he was just a kid—he says— 

He spelled a little bit, 

And so he tho’t he’d spell tonight 
Just for the fun of it. 

But now—he says—it wa’n’t much fun 
To spell with city guys, 

’Twas so dead easy, don’t ye see, 

For him to win the prize. 

He says they’ve been to school so long 
That they’ve forgot so much, 

It wasn’t hardly fair to be 
A spellin’ down with such. 

Now if his brother had been here 
To spell with him tonight, 

Don’t s’pose they’d finished up the game 
Before the mornin’ light. 

He ain’t a goin’ to spell no more 
With city folks—not he— 

It isn’t fun enough for him, 

That’s what he’s tellin’ me. 


26 


ASSOCIATION 


9 WAS on a summer evening 



In the years of long ago, 

That his love to me was plighted 
In accents soft and low, 

When all around was silent 
Save the vesper sparrows trill, 

And the sweet and plaintive singing 
Of the lonely whippoorwill. 

And now whene’er the summer 
In beauty doth appear, 

His words so sweet and tender 
Seem whispering in my ear, 

As at eventide I listen, 

When all beside is still, 

To the whippoorwill’s sweet singing 
And the vesper sparrow’s trill. 


27 


THE OLD COWBELL 


HE patter of the raindrops 



A Upon the leafy boughs, 

Takes me back again to childhood 
And we’re looking for the cows 
Through a wild and lonely forest, 
In a summer evening rain, 

And we’re listening for the ringing 
Of the cowbell, oft in vain; 

And as we stop to listen 
While darkness hovers round, 

We hear the sweetest music 
That can anywhere be found; 

’Tis the singing of the wood thrush 
And the veery’s lovely trill, 

Mingled with the raindrop’s patter, 
And the songs of whippoorwill; 

And although ’tis sweeter music 
Than I have power to tell, 

Still we’re listening for the ringing 
Of the old cowbell! 


28 



Still we’re listening for the ringing 
Of the old cowbell”, 







THE OPTIMIST 


T> EATS all the way it’s rainin’, 
And it’s mighty cold I jing! 
Looks like we won’t raise nothin’ 
With such a backward spring. 

But let me tell ye mister 
I ’aint a goin’ to whine, 

Just look at them ar goslins, 
Now ’aint they growin’ fine? 

Oh, chickens ’aint wuth countin’; 
Each puny little chick 
Is a peepin’ and a peepin’ 

Like he was gettin’ sick, 

And all the little turkeys 
Are a dyin’, don’t you see? 

But look at them ar goslins’, 

Just as peart as they can be! 

The summer time’s a cornin’, 

And summer time ’ill go, 

And autumn will be with us 
Almost before ye know; 

And when the autumn’s over 
Why then it’s Christmas time, 

Say mister! ’aint them goslins’ 

A doin’ mighty fine? 


31 


A LEAP YEAR POEM 


'VjOW I suppose there are some men 
Who are good cooks all right, 

For they do tell me that the men 
Got up this feast to-night. 

I’ll give you my experience 
Along the cooking line, 

I used to think that I could cook, 

And do it pretty fine. 

My folks went east a visiting, 

When we lived way out west, 

And I stayed home and cooked my grub 
The way I liked it best. 

Now when I cook I never go 
By any recipe, 

But I just go to work and cook 
Things way they ought to be. 

My folks they had a pet dog then— 

Of course he didn’t go— 

But stayed at home along with me 
For company you know. 

He used to wag his little tail 
And seem quite satisfied, 

But the victuals didn’t agree with him 
And the little fellow died. 


32 


A LEAP YEAR POEM 




Oh! I was awful lonesome then, 

And so right after that 
I gave the choicest of the grub 
To our old pussy cat. 

Now being kind to animals 
Is a lovely thing to do, 

But in about a week or less 
The cat died too! 

And then I saw that I myself 
Was getting mighty thin, 

And so I wrote my folks “Come home 
If you want to see me again.” 

And now young man just look’ee here 
I’ll tell ye what I guess, 

If a good cook says “Will you be mine,” 
You’d better tell her “yes.” 


33 




THE SIGHING WIND 


S OFTLY now the wind is sighing, 
Sweetly, sadly, how it moans! 

Bliss and sadness intermingle 
As I listen to its tones. 

Ever when the wind is sighing, 

As it sighed in days of yore, 

Mem’ry brings a western prairie 
To my vision o’er and o’er. 

Oh, the beauty of the prairie, 

Where it’s boundless, wild and free, 
With its grass and flowers waving 
Like the waves upon the sea. 

Sadly now the wind is sighing 
As I think of one so dear, 

Sleeping where the prairie roses 
Bloom and perish year by year. 


34 


LOVELY WINTER 


T LIKE to hear the murmur now 
Of gently falling snow, 

I like to think of when and how 
Our horses used to go. 

I like to hear the sleighbells ring 
On happy New Years Day. 

Such pleasure can’t be beat I jing 
In California. 

And when I see the trees so white 
All frosted o’er so fine, 

I am inclined to say “Good night, 
No Florida in mine!” 


35 


FARMING 


TT7HILE I am awaking as daylight is breaking, 

* * And the mists o’er the meadow hang low, 

The birds sing so sweetly, as if they would greet me 
When out to my labor I go. 

And on thru the hours where beautiful flowers 
Of nature’s own planting are found, 

There’s pleasure in sowing and reaping and mowing, 
There’s pleasure in tilling the ground. 

And oh! how inspiring at the time of retiring 
Is a sunset at closing of day, 

And after the closing, while we are reposing, 

How sweet is the fragrance of newly mown hay. 

In our occupation we’re feeding the nation 
And people beyond the great sea. 

While working for others we feel that we’re brothers 
To all where so e’er they may be. 

Oh! The business of farming to me is so charming, 
’Tho wearily often I plod, 

For there is a pleasure away beyond measure 
In living near Nature and God. 


36 



“there’s pleasure in sowing and reaping and molving , 
there’s pleasure in tilling the ground”. 




a 


IRVING 


O NE time our daughter’s oldest son, 
Oh, he’s a lovely boy! 

Came up to visit Ma and I, 

Came up from Illinois. 

And so one day while he was here, 
Was here awhile to stay, 

We went to see the ferns and flowers 
In a swamp some miles away. 

And when he saw a lovely fern, 

He called to me, “Grandpa, 

I wish that I could take this fern 
And show it to my Ma.” 

And so it was all through the day, 
When lovely things he saw, 

He always said he wished that he 
Could show them to his Ma. 

I thought while there I looked at him, 
The pride of his Grandpa, 

A boy will never go far wrong 
Who dearly loves his Ma. 


39 


THE OLD HEDGE ROW 


N OW some folks like the elm tree, 
They like its lovely shade; 

And some folks think the maple 
Is the best tree ever made. 

But oh, I like the hawthorne 
With blossoms white as snow, 

I like to see it blooming 
In the old hedge row! 

Now some folks like the roses 
Because they are so sweet, 

And some folks think the lily 
Is a flower that’s hard to beat; 

But oh, I like the wild flowers, 

The little flowers which grow 
Where they always look so pretty, 

In the old hedge row! 

Now some folks like canaries, 

They like to hear them sing, 

And some folks like the linnet, 

They think it’s just the thing; 

But oh, I like the sparrows, 

And the little brown junco, 

I like to hear them singing 
In the old hedge row! 


40 


THE OLD HEDGE ROW 


Now some folks like to listen 
While a storm is sweeping past, 
They like to hear the rushing 
And the roaring of the blast; 
But oh, I like to listen 
While the sun is sinking low, 
To the whisperings of a zephyr 
In the old hedge row! 


41 


THE YELLOW-JACKET’S NEST 


O NE time when I was young and green— 

I wasn’t wanting to be mean— 

But I did wish to get, I said, 

A joke on Father’s thoroughbred. 

So on a yellow-jacket’s nest 
I put some of the very best 
Corn fodder that we had that year, 

And then that bull he acted queer. 

He bellowed and he pawed the ground, 

And broke through every fence he found 
The way he acted was a fright! 

And I was reckoned with that night— 

A horse whip in the hands of Dad 
Stung me, and stung me pretty bad! 

And oh, the way I danced around, 

And hopped, and jumped right off the ground, 
And sung a solo? No, not I! 

I couldn’t sing low—didn’t try. 

Believe me, I did sing, you bet! 

In memory I hear me yet. 


42 


THE GAME OF POMP POMP PULLAWAY 


I N mem’ry now I plainly see 

My schoolmates as they used to be, 
Oh! how they run the while they play 
The game of pomp pomp pullaway. 

And I can hear them as they whack 
Somebody three times on the back, 

Some one they’re catching while they play 
The game of pomp pomp pullaway. 

And I can see sun-bonnets neat, 

And lovely faces fair and sweet; 

The girls and boys together play 
The game of pomp pomp pullaway. 

If I could only be once more 
Back yonder in the days of yore, 

I sure would like again to play 
The game of pomp pomp pullaway. 


43 


GENE 


I LOVED the wildwood in the early spring, 
When flowers illumed the pathway of the year 
I loved to hear the woodland songsters sing 
When Gene was here. 

I loved the lilies where the rushes grew, 

I loved their fragrance on the summer air, 

I loved to see them in our light canoe 
When Gene was there. 

I love the lonely, silent autumn wood, 

Where once all nature was so blithe and gay, 

I love the silence of its solitude 
While Gene’s away. 

I love to think of winter wild and drear, 

When blustering boreas leaves an icy track, 

For I shall hear the sleigh bells ringing clear 
When Gene comes back. 


44 



I love the lonely , silent autumn wood, 

‘Where once all nature was so blithe and gciy”. 











THE VIOLIN 


HERE’S nothing wakes the memory 
So tenderly within, 

As the soul inspiring music 
Of a well played violin. 

And oh such pleasant memories 
Of other days it brings, 

When the master violinist 
Is playing on the strings. 

And I hear sweet songsters warble, 
And rivers murmur low, 

When the well trained violinist 
Is performing with the bow. 


47 


MOTHER 


W HILE in my hammock lying 

’Neath blooming orchard trees, 
Half consciously I listen 
To the humming of the bees, 

And the cooing of the turtle dove 
Among the leaves and flowers, 

For I am dreaming, dreaming 
Of childhood’s happy hours. 

And in my dreams I wander 
To a lovely forest where 
The violets are blooming, 

And I see my Mother there; 

And also there about her 
Five little boys I see, 

Five active little fellows 
As happy as can be. 

And now I think of Mother 
And how she used to go 
With us to gather wild flowers, 
Because she loved us so. 

And thus it was that Mother 
And the beautiful in nature, 

Led us in early childhood 
To adore the great Creator. 

And now I love the wild flowers 
E’en more than any other, 

For when I see them blooming 
I always think of Mother. 


48 


THE LITTLE LADY 


T N Waukesha, Wisconsin, 

At one fourteen South Grand, 
Lives the dearest little lady 
There is in all this land! 

Her Mother does not call her 
“You itty teety sing,” 

But talks to her good English, 
And tells her everything. 

And then this little lady, 

This babe with eyes of blue, 

In looks is saying “Mama, 

My Mama I love you.” 

And thus this loving Mother, 
With a Mother’s loving eyes, 

Is talking while her baby 
Thus lovingly replies. 

There is nothing any sweeter 
Beneath the heavens above, 

Than this baby thus responding 
To her Mother’s tender love. 


49 


WHEN I WAS A KID 


tttE USED to fish along the “crick” 

^ * Where weeds and willows grew so thick, 
A catching shiners when they’d bite, 

And Ma would fry them too all right. 

They tasted mighty good, they did, 

When I was just a little kid. 

We used to pick while it was hot, 
Strawberries in the meadow lot, 

And Ma would take them then and make 
The loveliest kind of a short-cake. 

There’s nothing now tastes like that did, 
When I was just a little kid. 

I’d like to hear the robins sing 
At sunset time in early spring, 

And hear the weather-wise folks say 
“Tomorrow’ll be a stormy day!” 

The way they very often did 
When I was just a little kid. 

I’d like to hear the concert too, 

Of toads and frogs down in the slough, 

Then with the bittern’s hollow boom, 

There in the twilight’s deepening gloom, 
’Twould sound as summer evenings did, 
When I was just a little kid. 


50 


WHEN I WAS A KID 


I’d like to hear the whippoorwill 
At night when all beside is still, 

Back yonder in the hazel wood, 

’Twould do me such a lot of good 
To hear him singing as he did 
When I was just a little kid. 

If I could say the little prayer 

Which Mother taught me way back there, 

As trustingly as I did then, 

And feel her loving kiss again, 

I’d sleep as sweetly as I did 
When I was just a little kid. 


51 


EARLY DAYS 


A ND now my thoughts wander 
'*** ’Way back through the years, 
To the time when a forest 
Was all around here; 

Where here and there only 
A clearing was made, 

And the humble log cabin 
Of some pioneer. 

My Father and Mother 
Were living here then, 

And I was just one 
Of their five little boys. 

What good times we had 
In our log cabin home, 

And we made the old wildwood 
Ring out with our noise. 

When we yoked up the steers 
To a lumbering cart, 

And told them “Giddap” 

And applied the ox goad, 

Why then the best turnout 
We had in those days 
Went bumppetty bump 
O’er a corduroy road. 


52 



“cZAnd nolv my thoughts wander 
yr Way back through the years” 








EARLY DAYS 


But the years rolled along 
And the country grew old, 
And we, too, grew older, 
And soon were young men; 
And my folks had horses 
And I went out riding, 

But not with my brothers, 
Not then, not then. 




55 


A GETTING BITES 


^TpHE farmer is the only one 

A living now who has much fun. 

He plants his corn in early spring 
And then he doesn’t do a thing, 

But watch it grow and grow and grow, 
Until its almost time to snow, 

And then if it is not too green 
He trades it off for gasoline, 

And speeds away to a southern clime 
Where it is summer all the time; 
Excepting when the frost, alas, 

Is nipping at the garden sass, 

And everyone’s afraid a freeze 
Is going to nip the orange trees; 

And yet the alligators smile 
And fleas are biting all the while, 

And oh! the bugs have such a knack 
Of crawling on a feller’s back. 

But he can catch a lot of fish 
Or buy a big one if he wish, 

And oh! it makes him laugh and laugh, 
To think about the photograph 
He’s going to take of it and send 
Away to some good northern friend, 

And he will tell him o’er and o’er 
Though it weighed fifteen pounds or more 
It wasn’t half as big and fine 
As one that broke his hook and line. 

And now he’s trying every day 
To catch the fish which got away, 

And he is, mostly in the nights, 

A getting lots and lots of bites! 


56 


WHEN WE WERE YOUNG 


TT7HEN we were young and owned a pung 
* * And a lively old bay mare, 

On New Years Day we’d skip away— 

Me and my lady fair. 

An auto truck is getting stuck 
Whenever there is snow, 

But our old mare would sure get there 
In the days of long ago. 

Now when it’s time to start we climb 
Out of a car and crank, 

And then alas, we find the gas 
Is all gone from the tank. 

We used to say giddap old bay 
And slap her with a line, 

Then jingaling sleighbells would ring 
For that sweetheart of mine. 


57 


OUR FIRST RAILROAD 


S OME Epworth League people are wishing tonight 
That I would come up here, and read or recite 
Some poems IVe written of days now gone by, 

And so I will read some, at least I will try. 

I was born in this county, now first let me state, 
Before this big city did incorporate. 

This part of Milwaukee was then Spring Street Hill, 
And men of the forest were roaming here still. 

But now its Grand Avenue where we are here, 

It always looked grand in the fall of the year. 
Wisconsin was only a territory then, 

Yet blest with some very remarkable men. 

One came here the sand and the clay then to mix 
And mould into shape the most beautiful bricks. 
Because of their color and wonderful fame 
“Cream City” was always Milwaukee’s pet name. 
When the first of our railroads was building from here 
I heard the steam whistle which sounded so queer 
That I asked my dear Mother, so good to us boys, 
Just what it was then that was making that noise. 
And after she told us we often would run, 

And hoot like the engine, and have lots of fun. 


58 


BREAKING PRAIRIE 


fnpHE wild flowers of the prairie 
Are blooming every where, 

And perfumes so enchanting 
Are floating on the air; 

Where the pioneer so sturdy 
And his yoke of oxen plod 
The wdld and lovely prairie 
While breaking up the sod, 

Where anon the startled curlew 
Doth match his piercing scream 
Against the noisy whooping 
That urges on the team ; 

Where all beside is silent 
Save the swishing soothing sound 
Of the plow and rolling coulter 
A slicing up the ground. 




59 


MY BIRTHDAYS 


L ONG years ago on my birthdays 
I’d stand up by the wall 
And have somebody measure me 
To see if I was tall. 

And oh! I had four brothers then, 
We’d all stand in a row, 

And.Ma would smile on us and say: 
“Oh! how my boys do grow!” 

And now when e’er my birthdays come, 
Though they are days of mirth, 

I always think of that dear one 
Who gave to me my birth; 

And of the great Creator too, 

He doeth all things well, 

He paints the wild flower in the wood 
Where loving songbirds dwell; 

And they are his own handiwork; 

He made them blithe and gay, 

With hearts so full of melody 
They sing both night and day, 

And when I hear them sweetly sing 
I think of childhood’s joys! 

Oh! how we loved the songs of birds 
When we were little boys! 

And now the sweetest songs we hear, 
The songs we most admire, 

Are sung in nature’s solitude, 

Are sung by nature’s choir; 

And the babbling of the little brook, 
Or the river’s gentle moan, 

Is music that is dear to us 
When we are all alone. 


60 



“c %nd when I hear them sweetly sing , 
1 think of childhood's joys ” 













TOCK-TICK-TOCK 


T T OW often on my journey here 
A A Fond memory brings to me 
The humble home where I was born 
Just as it used to be! 

I see again the rough hewn logs, 

I walk the puncheon floor, 

I sit beside the open fire, 

I hear the chimney roar; 

I see the spare rib roasting there; 
The crane hung kettle swings; 

While underneath the great hearth stone 
The cheerful cricket sings. 

And now I see upon the wall 
The old big wooden clock, 

Its pendulum is swinging slow 
While it says “Tock-Tick-Tock.” 


63 


THE TRUNDLE BED 


I USED to like to hear the rain 
A beating on the window pane, 

Or on the shake roof over head, 

While I was in my trundle bed. 

And when the north wind blew and blew 
Around the house with such a whew, 

I liked to hear the snow o’er head, 
Though some fell on my trundle bed. 

And often in the silent night 
I’d see a twinkling little light 
Right through the shake roof over head, 
A star shone on my trundle bed. 

And when the moon was shining bright, 
I’d get to seeing things at night, 

And I would cover up my head 
While I was in my trundle bed. 

And when I heard the goblins creep 
Around me there, I couldn’t sleep; 

I thought of rats and ducked my head 
Down deeper in the trundle bed. 

And yet I’d like to be a child 
Again out in the forest wild, 

And rest my weary, aching head 
Once more in that same trundle bed. 


64 


AT EASTER TIME 


T N nineteen hundred twenty four, 

Here in this world of strife, 

We’re going to celebrate once more 
The Resurrection Life. 

The flowers which God has made to bloom 
So beautifully gay, 

Are coming forth as from a tomb, 

On ev’ry Easter day. 

And birds so silent when the leaves 
And grass and flowers are dead, 

Are singing sweetly while the trees 
Are budding over head. 

And when the little toads and frogs, 
Which sleep all winter long, 

Awaken in the marshy bogs, 

They sing their sweetest song. 

So may we then our voices raise, 

In songs which are sublime, 

And sing our great Redeemer’s praise, 

At lovely Easter time. 


65 


HALLOWE’EN 


W HEN I was cornin’ home one night 
On the grave yard fence there sat, 

I couldn’t see exactly what, 

But I thought it was a cat. 

An owl was sittin’ on a tree 
And he wuz wonderin’ too 
Just what it was upon the fence, 

And he kept sayin’ “whoo!” 

But when I saw a fiery mouth 
And eyes which were so bright, 

I knew a spook was after me 
And I skipped out o’ sight. 

I went right down into a cave, 

And oh it made me crawl, 

The way the bats were flitting there 
And snakes hung from the wall. 

And bloated toads were hoppin’ round 
There in the oozy mire, 

And witches were a dancin’ too 
Around an open fire. 


66 


HALLOWE’EN 


The oldest witch that I saw then, 
The way I recollec’, 

Was brewin’ tea in a caldron there 
With a snake around her neck. 

And on the witches dancin’ there, 
Around each waist there clung 
A livin’ snake that looked at me 
While lickin’ out its tongue. 

And then I saw another witch, 
And she, she had a broom, 

And I, I got right out o’ there, 
And gave her lots o’ room. 

The witches acted that-a-way 
When I was young and green, 

And they act kind o’ queerly now 
On every Hallowe’en. 


67 


PROGRESSIVE 


A WAY back there in other years 

My Dad, he drove a yoke of steers, 
And when he told them whoa-haw-back! 
They’d go a speeding down the track! 

And when I grew to be a man, 

I had a team which also ran— 

It was a pony team—and say! 

They’d get right up and run away! 

And now my son is doing biz, 

While driving that machine of his; 

And when he steps upon the gas, 

Get out o’ the way, and let him pass! 

And when his son, who beats the band, 
Has found the best girl in the land, 

I s’pose an aeroplane they’ll buy, 

And go a sailing in the sky. 


68 








HURRY UP 


tT’S up to us to feed the world 
*** At prices that are right, 

And so each day we hurry up 
From morning until night. 

While milking cows we’re sitting down— 
I s’pose you think that’s fun,— 

But all the same it’s hurry up 
And get the milking done. 

And when we’ve got the milking done 
The quickest we know how, 

Why then it’s hurry, hurry up 
And eat your supper now. 

And after supper while the stars 
Above their vigils keep, 

It’s go to bed now, hurry up 
And get a little sleep. 

And when the first gray streak appears 
Down in the eastern sky, 

Again it’s hurry, hurry up 
The day is going by. 


71 


HURRY UP 


And then we don our working clothes 
And hike to the barn, and then 
It’s hurry, hurry, hurry up 
And milk the cows again. 

An extra nap on Sabbath morn 
Just leaves us in the lurch, 

And so it’s hurry, hurry up 
Or we’ll be late to church. 

We’re members of the human race, 
We’re racers through and through, 
That’s why we always hurry up 
In everything we do. 


72 


SEA SICK 


tttE’VE been a working mighty hard 
** Here on the farm, my dear, 
Supposing now we pack our duds 
And get right out o’ here! 

Just let the children run the place 

And we get up and go 

And see the world a little bit, 

’Twill do us good you know. 

Say! tell me when the boat ’ill start, 
Maria here and me 
Both want to be on board you know 
When she puts out to sea. 

Now I don’t really know if I 
Quite like this boat I vow, 

I’m half a mind to give it up 
And go back home right now. 

Say! what’s the weather going to do 
’Pears like it’s mighty warm, 

Now I’am kind o’juberous 
That it’s a going to storm. 

I’d hate to have the boat upsot 
Out on the briny sea, 

’Cause why—we never learned to swim, 
Maria here and me. 


73 


SEA SICK 


Well! how d’ye like Maria’s dress? 
Say! don’t you think it’s fine? 

And what d’ye think I had to give 
For this ’ere hat of mine? 

I wonder why the boat don’t start, 
It must be getting late. 

You see it’s getting on my nerves, 

It gets my goat to wait 

Hoot—Hoot—Hoot— 
Geewhiz! the boat is on the move, 
Just hear the whistle blow, 

Too late for us to back out now 
I guess we’ll have to go. 

Well! Now Maria look at that! 
Just see the billows foam! 

I feel so kind o’ sickish now 
I wish I’d stayed to home! 

Maria, oh! I feel so sick 
I don’t know what to do, 

I’m going to lose that fifteen cents 
I paid for supper too! 


74 


OUR MOTHER 


TT7HO, in the years of long ago, 

* Had five small boys who wished to know 
’Bout everything they saw or heard— 

Each lovely flower—each singing bird? 

It was our Mother. 

Who went with us to take a look 
At little pebbles in the brook, 

And see the minnows darting there, 

And lily blossoms bright and fair? 

It was our Mother. 

Who went with us along the bank 
Beside the brook where weeds grew rank, 

And found a little sparrow’s nest— 

The cutest, sweetest, and the best? 

It was our Mother. 

Who, in the forest’s leafy shade, 

Showed us the trees which God had made— 
From little acorns there they grew 
Away up toward the sky so blue? 

It was our Mother. 


75 


OUR MOTHER 


Who cared for us when we were ill, 
And gently stroked our brows until 
The throbbing aching ceased, and then 
We’d sleep so peacefully again? 

It was our Mother. 

Who was it taught us first to pray 
There at the close of every day— 
“Now I lay me down to sleep, 

I pray the Lord my soul to keep”? 

It was our Mother. 

Who over on the other shore, 

Where we shall meet to part no more, 
And where from sorrow we’ll be free, 
Will we be, oh, so glad to see? 

’Twill be our Mother. 


76 


OVER THERE 


TF I should live a hundred years, 

In mem’ry I would see 
The one who taught me first to pray— 
My Mother, dear to me. 

And if I lived a hundred more, 

I’d still expect to see 

Her, over on the other shore, 

A waiting there for me. 

Yet often while I think of her 
As waiting for me there, 

I wonder if she isn’t here 
A guarding me with care. 


77 


GOING HOME 


T T THILE we are busy with our toil 
* * The orb of day rolls on, 

And soon beyond the western hills 
The day itself is gone. 

Then while the shades of night appear 
And the stars swing in the dome, 

It’s such a pleasure just to know 
We’re going home. 

So may it be when life’s short day 
Of toil and care and ills 
Has nearly reached the sunset zone 
Away beyond the hills, 

And shades of night are gathering in 
And we have ceased to roam, 

That we shall know the joy which comes 
With going home. 


78 





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